Page 7 of Resisting the Bossy Billionaire

‘See,lady?’ Marcello said. ‘Theyagree with me. It is not safe for you to leave.’

She tilted her head and, her Irish lilt musing, said, ‘How strange when barely an hour ago you thought it acceptable for me to go out in it and collect your bagel.’

‘I wasn’t to know the storm had come in so quickly, was I?’

‘Of course not. After all, I only mentioned it a dozen times.’

‘If I have told you once, I have told you a million times not to exaggerate.’

Her lips twitched again, her chin wobbling, a classic sign that Victoria was suppressing laughter.

Marcello had never met anyone with such similar humour to him before. He’d recognised it the day he’d met her, when she’d been the assistant of the CEO of a firm he’d been considering investing in. During the firm’s presentation, anything that could have gone wrong had. Victoria had impressed him with her handling of it all, all grace under fire. It wasn’t until the final slide that it had become apparent everything going wrong was due to sabotage. Instead of the usual boring variation of,Thank you for your considerationappearing on the screen, someonehad replaced it with a still from an old popular musical film where three high school students flashed their bare backsides and ‘mooned’ to the camera.

The po-faced directors had been outraged. Marcello had thought it hilarious. One look at the curvy redhead’s contorted face had only added to his delight. It was seeing the tortured suppression of her laughter that had made his own all the sweeter.

‘Your staff must really hate you,’ he’d observed once he’d stopped laughing. Then, unable to resist, he’d looked again at the redhead. She’d clamped her hand over her mouth. Her shoulders had been shaking. Tears had been in her eyes. Only the expression in them had betrayed her thoughts. Those eyes had clearly been telling him she couldn’t hold it back much longer and implored him not to say another word.

He’d taken pity on her and declined the investment without any further quips.

When Denise had announced she wouldn’t return from her maternity leave, he’d known exactly who to appoint as her permanent replacement, and it would be a cold day in hell before he let Victoria leave him...terminate her employment, he corrected himself. It would be a colder day in hell before he let her go back out into that storm.

Unfolding his arms, he held his hands up. ‘Okay, I admit it. You were right and I was wrong, and as you were right you must see that walking three blocks in this weather is a suicide mission.’

Eyes narrowing, she lifted her chin. ‘Do you take back the part where you accused me of whining?’

He sighed. ‘Sì, I take it back.’

Her eyes now widened as she eyeballed him and non-subtly cleared her throat.

He exaggerated the next sigh. ‘I am sorry that I accused you of whining. Now, can we please go up to my apartment before I drop down dead of hypothermia?’

More lip twitching. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that—you carry enough hot air in you to keep your core temperature up longer than the rest of us mortals.’

He shook his head regretfully. ‘More talk like that and I will have to sack you.’

Her twitching lips spread into a wide grin and she shook her head before heading to the elevator, loudly saying, ‘You’re an idiot.’

He clamped a hand to her shoulder as he fell into step with her. ‘You love me really.’

He didn’t even have to look at her to know she was rolling her eyes.

Maybe she had a point about him being full of hot air because the warmth in his chest as he rode his elevator back up to his apartment with his favourite person in the whole of New York was enough to take the edge off the chill of his skin.

With Marcello taking a hot shower to defrost, Victoria curled up on her favourite of his sofas with a mug of his precious and admittedly delicious coffee. She’d thrown her wet jeans in the tumble dryer—she would bet money he didn’t know where it was located in his vast apartment—and been astounded to find them dry within minutes. Relieved too. No way did she want to be around Marcello with only tights and socks covering her legs. Her jumper barely skimmed her bum.

She turned the telly on. Storm Brigit and the destruction it was already causing dominated the news.

She flicked through the channels in the hope of finding a forecaster with a better prognosis for it. She’d settled on the most optimistic of them when she head Marcello’s footsteps coming down the staircase that connected the ground floor to the overhang behind her.

He refilled his coffee from the pot she’d brought from the kitchen into the living room, and made himself comfortable on the L-shaped sofa to the side of the one she’d taken.

‘Jeans?’ she gasped with faux horror when she clocked he wasn’t wearing a suit.

‘Do not tellTimeMagazine,’ he quipped.

‘They wouldn’t believe me.’

He met her stare and grinned. Along with his faded blue jeans, he’d donned a long-sleeved black top that enhanced his muscular physique. Not that he was over muscly. He didn’t aspire to be a bodybuilder or anything, but he liked to take care of himself and made regular use of the apartment building’s humungous gym and swimming pool.

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